One new message.
Mom-Call me. Patrick’s in the hospital.
The floor tilted under him. How was that even possible? He’d seen him three days ago. Yes, he had a cold, and Patrick’s health could always turn on a dime but he hadn’t seen this coming. He ducked into the nearest empty hallway and hit call.
His mom picked up on the first ring. “Murphy, it’s okay,” she said quickly, her voice calm but tired. “He’s okay. They admitted him for pneumonia, just as a precaution. The doctors want tokeep him overnight. The sniffles and cough he’s been fighting got worse, but he’s okay.”
Murphy slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, skates still laced tight, helmet dangling from his hand. Relief and fear tangled in his chest. “Okay. Okay. Thanks for letting me know. I’ll call again later. Tell him I love him.”
He hung up, pressing the phone to his forehead, forcing his breath steady.
“Murph?”
He looked up to see Conner standing a few feet away, gear slung over one shoulder. The captain’s steady gaze pinned him in place. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Murphy said quickly, too quickly.
Conner’s expression didn’t change. He just stepped closer. “Don’t give me that.”
Murphy exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “My brother’s in the hospital. You know, he has Down syndrome—pneumonia hits him hard. They’re keeping him overnight.” Not a lie. Just not the whole truth.
Conner’s expression softened, all business stripped away. “Murphy. You can go. Family comes first.”
Murphy shook his head. “My mom said he’s okay. Just wanted me to know. If she needs me, I’ll be there. But for now . . . ” He swallowed hard. “For now, hockey.”
Conner studied him for another long moment, then nodded once. “Alright. But if you need anything, you tell me. Anything.”
Murphy nodded, his throat too tight for words.
For now, all he could do was skate.
The locker room buzzed with laughter and showers running, but Murphy kept his head down as he stripped out of his gear. He moved on autopilot—jersey peeled, pads off, skates unlaced—until he was standing in just shorts and a T-shirt, sweat already cooling against his skin.
He shoved his things into his bag and didn’t stop moving. If he paused, the weight of it all—Hillary’s silence, Patrick in the hospital, the hollow ache in his chest—would crush him.
The weight room was mostly empty this late in the day, the clank of plates and hum of the ventilation system echoing in the space. Murphy loaded a barbell, gripped it tight, and pushed.
Again. And again. And again.
Muscles screaming, lungs burning, sweat pouring down his back.
The physical pain was familiar. Manageable. The kind that bent to willpower, the kind he could outlast.
And if he kept pushing, just a little harder, just a little longer, maybe his heart would catch up.
The burn felt good.
Soon, he told himself.
Soon his heart would too.
35
HILLARY
Hillary slid into her office later than usual, her workbag thumping against her desk as she set it down. The morning had already been swallowed by a meeting at the local skating rink about a collaboration for the team’s hockey scholarship program. Productive, necessary, and safe.
Work was always safe.
